Polly Mukanova, Sofia, Bulgaria

Polly Mukanova was born on 23 on May 1980 in
Sofia. She has BA degree in "Bulgarian Philology" at Sofia University
"St. Kliment Ohridski" (2004). In 2005 she graduated in MA program
"Literature - creative writing" with a project "Identity -
diaries (2000-2005)". Her texts were published in "Literaturen
vestnik", "Slovoto dnes", "Knizhevno jitie" (Skopie)
and e-magazines LiterNet, e-lit, Public Republic, in the collections of student
poetry "Facecontrol" (2005), as well as in the collection
"Ah Maria" (2009), in anthology "Kenga e Detit" (in
Albanian language). Her debut poetry book "Moments in a match-box"
(2009) is also published in Macedonia (translated by Zoran Yakimoski). Polly Mukanova
took part in many International Poetry festivals. She writes also fragments and
short stories.
At the present moment she is a PhD candidate at
Sofia University in "History of the Book ".

Poet as a memory on a person. Poetry as an reflection of the act. Polly Mukanova here as an reflection of the personal act. Within the poetry. Of her own. As she is.

She is focused on the words and sentences. Quietly, calmly waiting for us to read it. Understand it. If we do not, she does not care. She cares only....you know...About the poetry.

Editor's wordSabahudin Hadžialić25.9.2011.

1st of june

Not yet dry behind the ears, The face cream of the childhood.

Salomé

The mind is saying mass In the bosom of the sleeping moon. John, your closed eyes Are the hidden sky I want to kiss your lips Till full simplification To the nucleus of all metaphors About love

Moments in a match-box

The fig jam – It is “only for weddings and funerals” I took off my garland Is the Death frightening? Oh, what beautiful verses Describe her. There are no more matches The Hungarian dictionary is useless It’s raining again I will hang the yellow balloon To the chandelier Because there is no sun.

* * *

Gone missing With the notebooks, The haiku, He has passed through the shortcut Choosing a distich Waiting for the death.

It is an art to be clay-made

No one would take the clay away The mind has gone to hell And it burns there, Where the plastic clay is getting cool In the shape of… In the name of… Where everyone is a creator. Because the wheel never stops its movement And We mould lengths, An empty revolutions. We are reciprocal only in our motion, In our sculpturing. Who would dare to take away my hands?

I am writing like my father. I am his suppressed Chaotic handwriting. I am writing on behalf of The Father I am create on behalf of the clay, Where he is cold, Eternally sculpturing, Without his hands.

The one who doesn’t have what to write Read the spaces between the lines. They tell some stories Short as fag-ends, The stone-cutters With bended heads Above the eternal stone

* * *

Not Golgotha, The blueberry’s hill Is what I want to climb

* * *

There are no traitors, There is no cross to bear, Only a crown of thorns.

Homo Faber

I am skillful as my father I model his name every day Like him, I reiterate myself “Nobody could take away my mind!” Before the whole mentality Becomes in the shape of a pottery And I have to daily mould myself from it. I love the skillful people The sculptured bodies The molten words. My hands are alive Covered in plastic claySculpturing precisely. I am like my father – I play with clay,With formsLaying the contours.

(inspired by René Magritte)

This is not a truth. This is not an imitation. This is not a dream. This is not that. Art with a reversed sign. The reciprocal of the imagination. The line of the scheme. This is me.La carte postalеThe history is frozen in its ikebana.A postcard without scenery. A document as a souvenir. Hi-ro-shi-ma. The missing town, with seal: 1945.